Too Long a Sacrifice
by nonyvole
Summary: Clint thought he was finally safe. Then they found him. Post-Avengers, post-Iron Man 3.
1. Chapter 1

Standardized disclaimer: Anything that's recognizable isn't mine. These are real places mentioned. Pioneer Square in Seattle is a good place to visit. People are all made up.

Many, many thanks to Kylen for putting this idea in my head, and to the people at The Beta Branch for checking my grammar. No relation to any of my other stories.

* * *

With a low moan, Clint stumbled against the side of a dumpster and slid down it to land on the ground. His free hand hit a puddle, and he couldn't help laughing bitterly at his initial flinch – shot, probably dying, and he was worried about a puddle of liquid on the ground after three days of rain. Four, he amended, hearing raindrops start to hit the metal lid of the dumpster with sharp pings. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his knees up to better hide from the view of the street.

"Find…get…" Clint winced at the feedback coming from the radio. Reluctantly, he pulled it from his ear and stared at it for probably longer than was necessary, before putting it under his heel and pressing down. A cracking noise indicated that it was broken, and he carefully eyed it before tossing the pieces to the side. Shivering as the rain quickly soaked through his clothes, Clint leaned against the side of his dumpster. He just wanted to go _home_…if he even had a home to go back to. With a shudder, he wished he still had the rest of his gear; it would have made trying to figure everything out that much easier.

Carefully lifting his hand, he took a slow breath and relaxed slightly when the holes didn't start bleeding again. Glancing around, he spotted a spot where most people wouldn't think of looking, and slowly moved towards a hole in the wall of a building. He finished shoving bricks in the entrance just in time to hear a male voice cursing. "He got rid of it. Back to the van; we're going to have to try something else. You sure you hit him?"

"Yeah. At least twice. Something's gotta be up with him, if he's still able to walk…" the voices trailed off. Clint didn't move, but relaxed slightly. This was as good a place as any to hide while he debated contacting _somebody_. He didn't think that Natasha would, but there was those comments about…he wasn't able to finish the thought before he passed out.

* * *

Faces. Faces and words ran through Clint's head as he woke up with a start. Wiping off the dust that had fallen on his face, he carefully shifted enough debris to look into the alley. When he didn't see anything moving, he made the hole large enough to slide out of, biting back his hiss of pain as the scabbed-over bullet wounds stretched. He hoped that they didn't start bleeding again. Sitting against the wall, he felt in his pocket for his wallet. "Damn," he cursed when he found it empty of cash. Either he used his debit card or he stole, and both ran the risk of him being _found_. "Think, Barton," he ordered himself. "Shelter, food, first aid."

He suddenly felt dizzy. "First aid." Carefully peeling his shirt back, he frowned at the sight. Carefully touching one of the holes, he groaned. "Fuck. Okay." He tried to remember options as he closed his eyes. "Water. Gotta stay hydrated. Keep this clean. You can do this, Barton." He opened his eyes and looked around. "Find the tourists." He used the wall to carefully stand up and check his balance, before shuffling towards the dumpster. Even an old bottle would give him something more than what he had.

Head down, he was aware of the stares as he carefully hugged the sides of buildings. But compared to the looks he'd been given before finally giving up and leaving, he could take the looks of pity. Even if he didn't like it, he could ignore it, especially since he was still trying to think of who, exactly, was behind everything and who could be considered safe. "Nat," he murmured wistfully. He could really use backup, but he didn't know _who_...Then the answer hit him, and he almost swore out loud at how _stupid_ he'd been. "Fury," he whispered to himself. "He wouldn't do this."

Spotting a public library, he slowly headed for the door and found a payphone. Dialing a string of numbers, he held his breath and hoped that the misdirect he'd used still _worked_. At Fury's rough greeting, Clint slowly exhaled. "Barton. Don't look for me and call off the dogs." He hung up before Fury had a chance to respond and took a careful look around. Heading straight for the bathroom that he hoped had paper towels and soap to wash his injuries off with, Clint also hoped that Fury really would hear what he had said.

"What the hell happened to _you_, man?" The question had Clint groaning. "Dude, you need a doctor or something?"

"Or something," Clint muttered. "'M fine."

He heard movement but didn't look up as a some money was shoved in front of his face. "Look, dude. Get some band-aids or something. Take a taxi to the hospital." When Clint shook his head the hand shook the money. "Really. That shit looks nasty. Paying off my fines can wait. And hell, maybe the people here know of a place. Stay here."

Closing his eyes, Clint felt the other man shove the money into his front pocket and heard the door shut. "Damn Samaritans." Shoving the money further down in his pocket, he slowly straightened up and made for the door. The mantra _don't stand out, don't be seen_ was running at high speed through his mind.

"Hey!" Clint ignored the shout coming from behind him as he pushed through the main doors. With a surreptitious glance around, he started heading downhill. It was easier, and he thought he saw a sign for a drugstore. The 20 bucks in his pocket would get him some water, some snacks, and some antibiotic ointment. He might even have enough for a t-shirt without as many bloodstains or holes.

* * *

"Sir?" Clint didn't look up from his position on the bench. "Sir?" A piece of paper was slid into his lap, and Clint reluctantly looked up. "What's your name, sir?"

Clint shook his head. "Please leave me alone." He felt miserable. He hurt, and he just _knew_ that his attempts to keep his injuries clean weren't working. "I'm just…passing through."

"Okay," the voice said. "I'm just giving you a list of resources for the homeless. I've seen you outside my store these past two days, so I'm guessing you don't have the money to pay for a hotel. But there are places that you can get bus tickets."

Clint laughed hoarsely. "Trying to get rid of me?"

"Frankly…yes. You people annoy the customers and stink up the area. You also drive away tourists."

Clint tried to stand up, but was only able to make it halfway. "Help me up?" He glanced up and caught the look of distaste he was being given. "Or not." He chuckled. "I'll leave."

"Thank you." The man turned around and walked off.

"Eventually." Clint sagged back and closed his eyes, crumpling the paper in his hand. "But not right now." Propping his elbow on the arm of the bench, he rested his forehead on his hand. "You're fucked, Barton," he whispered. "Completely and totally." Shaking his head, he snorted. "Not that it's a bad thing. Not right now. Worse places to be." He tried to ignore the slight shiver that ran through him. Digging into the plastic bag on the bench next to him, he pulled out a granola bar and forced himself to eat it. Shoving the wrapper back into the bag, he sighed and glanced around before carefully stretching out on the bench and closing his eyes. He'd find a better place after a nap.

He didn't think he was going to make it to Alaska…he couldn't even remember _why_ he'd chosen that as a destination, or why he'd decided to skip simply hopping a jet and _flying_ there. Clint squeezed his eyes tighter and slowly breathed out as his pain suddenly increased. Any movement made things worse, and Clint forced himself to relax his legs and abdomen. There. Maybe…he drifted off.

* * *

"Sir?" Clint groaned. It had been almost a week now, and he'd thought that his spot to sleep was safe. "You can't sleep here. Where do you live?"

"Don't," Clint muttered as he slowly sat up, feeling light-headed. "'M fine." He irritably wiped at his face. He didn't like feeling as off as he was.

"You don't look it," the police officer crouched down, one hand on his Taser. "I'm going to give you two options. One, you let me drive you to the emergency shelter for the night; they have some medical staff there. Two, I bring you in and get you looked at."

Clint's eyes went wide at the choice of words. "Can't go back," he panted, pressing further back against the wall. "_Can't_. They'll _kill_ me."

"Hey hey hey," the officer quickly said. "Kill you? Who? And can't go back where? The shelter? What's wrong?" He carefully reached out for Clint's shoulder.

"_Home_." Clint shook, panicked. "Can't go home. And everybody." With a groan, he doubled over. "Leave me alone! I'll leave!" One hand lashed out, weakly, and tried to push the officer away.

The officer shuffled backwards, out of the range of Clint's hand. "Look, bud, don't do that again. Two options. I take you to the hospital or I arrest you. Either way, you're not staying here tonight and you're getting looked at by a doctor. What's your name?"

Clint used the wall to help him stand up. "I'm leaving. Really."

The officer stood up, too, and reached for his radio. "Dispatch, car 2667. Put me out at Pioneer Square and I'll call in." He quickly moved around to stand in front of Clint. "You're probably about ten minutes away from falling flat on your face. Let me help you out." When Clint didn't respond he sighed and pulled out his cell phone. "Dispatch? Roy. Hey John. I'm following a new guy for a few minutes; he's not looking too good. I think if I tried to do anything he'd crash and…yeah. Yeah, put EMS on standby. Hey, bud! Where're you going?"

Clint stumbled and nearly fell. He was so _tired_ and _thirsty_ and _hurting _and he just wanted his own _bed_…"Away," he muttered. "Go away. 'M going."

"John, get EMS rolling, would you?" The officer turned slightly away from Clint. "Thanks." Clint seized the opportunity to stagger away. "Oh, for the love of…yeah, John, he's trying to leave."

Clint closed his eyes and sagged against the side of the building, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest. He shivered, a violent movement that felt like it was going to shake him apart, and he was aware of people stopping and staring. "No," he tried to say. "Go away." His vision dimmed and he slumped over.

"Hey, somebody call an ambulance!" A man knelt next to Clint's body. "This guy's burning up!"

"Damn." The police officer knelt down before reaching for his radio. "Dispatch, ETA on EMS? Guy I've been keeping an eye on finally passed out." He glanced up. "Pioneer Square, right next to the tour office." Carefully feeling at Clint's wrist and then his neck, the officer frowned. "Dispatch, put a stat on that ambulance. Starting CPR. Request backup for crowd control."

It was a tense few minutes before an ambulance pulled up and two men shouldered through the crowd. "What's going on?"

"New guy," the officer said, not stopping pressing on Clint's chest. "Collapsed less than ten minutes ago. No pulse. Haven't checked for ID yet."

Nodding, the paramedic glanced at his partner before pulling out AED pads and a pair of scissors. "Good compressions…keep on going." Carefully cutting Clint's shirt, he inhaled sharply. "Somebody's shooting bums? Hold compressions, don't touch." He stared at the cardiac monitor and pressed two fingers to Clint's neck. "He didn't need CPR, come on."

The three men lifted Clint onto the stretcher and at the paramedic's gesture, the police officer climbed behind the wheel. "Where to?"

"Harborview, this is Medic One. We're coming in with a male, thirties or forties. Unresponsive, shocky, two possible bullet holes to his abdomen." The paramedic pointedly glanced at the cab of the ambulance with raised eyebrows. Nodding, the officer put the ambulance in gear and started driving. "ETA five to ten." With a glance at his partner, the paramedic reached for a box. "Hope he _has_ ten minutes."

The ER doctor took one look at Clint and started snapping out orders. "Stat labs. Lactate. Blood cultures. Give me that airway kit. Radiology here yet?" As Clint was slid onto a table, he shook his head. "Sorry, fella. You're not going to like this. We have a line yet?" He glanced up. "Good. Call whoever's on for ICU and get them down here and we're going to need a central line. Fluids need to go faster…somebody find the rapid infuser or just _squeeze_ the damn bag!" Satisfied at the movement he saw, the doctor bent back over. "Respiratory? Going to need a vent. Where are the students? This is as close to a perfect case of septic shock as they'll ever see. You can practically _smell_ it on him."

"You sure that it isn't his clothes?" A tech quipped from where he stood, a bag of IV fluids in each hand. "Two liters almost in."

"Found his wallet." A nurse had been carefully sorting through Clint's pockets. "Two bucks in cash, credit card and driver's license don't match. Keep him as a John Doe, I guess."

"Then how hard should we try?" The doctor cursed as Clint bucked and gagged when he tried to slide a breathing tube in. "Don't answer that, and give him some…thank you," he finished as Clint suddenly went still. "There. X-rays, see if we can figure out what's causing all this." He caught the eye of a medical student who had gone pale. "It's called the Hippocratic Oath, ladies and gentlemen, and you nurses have something similar. First, do no harm, which means, to me, that we will do our _damndest_ to make sure that everybody brought here makes it out of this place under his or her own steam. However, there are patients who," he gestured to Clint, "we have to ask ourselves, is it _truly_ helping them to survive if they'll just end up back on the streets? Or do we have a gentleman who needs a chance to get back on his feet because he's otherwise a…son of a bitch." He stared at the x-rays. "Is that cop still here? We're going to need him, and call Surgery, too. He has two bullets in there."

Staring down at Clint's face, the doctor sighed. "Sorry, fella. Why didn't you come get help sooner?" He didn't look up, but raised his voice. "How soon can we get this guy up to a bed? And can we get him cleaned up some, too?"


	2. Chapter 2

As always, thanks to Kylen for the pushes, and everybody at The Beta Branch. Also thanks to everybody reading.

* * *

"Romanoff, I'm looking at an order in the computer, signed by Hill, sending Barton off. Now you're saying that he _faked_ that order and left nearly six months ago?" Fury stared at the woman looming over his desk. "Why do you say that? And what do you expect me to do, since apparently he chose to leave?"

"Let me _find_ him." Natasha narrowed her eyes. "And bring him back. _Something_ chased him off."

Fury's eye widened. "What?" He started. "I didn't-"

"You don't bother to follow up on anything, do you? People don't just _walk off_, not from here," Natasha hissed. "And if he truly _had_, he would not have sent me a note saying that he 'would be back in a few months' because he 'had stuff to do.' And people had been _threatening_ him." She tossed some papers onto Fury's desk. "I pulled these from his e-mail, but I can't find out who _sent_ them. And they're just a _fraction_ of what he was getting."

"Dammit," Fury cursed under his breath as he flipped through the letters. Slowly rereading one, he shook his head in disgust. "New orders, Romanoff. Find Barton. Bring him in, even if you have to hog-tie him and toss him over your shoulder. See if you can get anybody from the Avengers Initiative to help – Stark would be my recommendation." He stared at Natasha and tapped one finger against his desk. The silence lengthened until Natasha felt like screaming. "The only people from SHIELD who need to know about _any_ of this are you and me, until I tell you otherwise. Understand?"

With a sharp nod, Natasha straightened up. "Yes." Spinning on her heel, she stalked for the door and reached for her phone. Pausing, she turned back around. "What about Agent Coulson and his group? It would be a good asset."

"What if they were part of it?" Fury's words made Natasha's stomach drop. She and Clint had worked with Coulson for years, and if Coulson was part of it, she didn't know what she would do. "The two of us only for now. Dismissed, Agent Romanoff. You're on detached duty to Stark Industries as of 0900 today."

Natasha thinned her lips. "I will contact Pepper Potts and work something out with her, then."

* * *

"Natasha?" Pepper stood up when the SHIELD agent slipped through her door. "Please, come in. Do you need anything?"

"A cover," Natasha said bluntly. "And a chance to talk with Stark. I could use his help. I will need to be able to travel on short notice. I don't know where yet."

Pepper gestured at a chair. "Sit. I'm sure that we can think of something." Reaching for her phone, she dialed a number. "Happy? Please come up." She stared at Natasha as the two women sat down. "What about Tony? He's not in trouble, is he?"

"Not that I am aware of." Natasha shoved her worry and desire to _get out_ and start _looking_ back and firmly clasped her hands in her lap. "I…am looking for somebody."

"Who?"

"A friend. That's all that I can say right now." Natasha stopped trying to seem impassive and leaned forward. "_Please_, Pepper. I can understand that you and Stark may not trust SHIELD – _me_ – right now, but this was the only place, the only _people_, that I could think of that would be able to help. Cl-my friend has been missing for six months now. I've spent the past two looking for him, and only _yesterday_ was I able to find part of the truth."

Pepper leaned back in her chair. "Really. Phil told me a little about SHIELD's capabilities, how can Stark Industries top that?"

"Because it might be SHIELD that's the problem." Natasha closed her eyes and took a deep breath, reminding herself that she needed to keep an eye on what she said. "Please," she whispered. She heard the door open.

"You!" The voice made Natasha jump. "You didn't check in with security!"

"Happy," Pepper sighed. "Natasha is allowed. Sit down; we need to have a fast discussion. Natasha needs our help, so is there any way that she could be connected to us?" She held up one hand. "And could you please take her over to the Tower? She needs to talk with Tony."

"Even so, she needs to be cleared at Security." Natasha could barely hold groan of distress. "But sure, Miss Potts, I'll make sure she gets over to the Tower. Will Tony want to see her?"

"He will." Natasha ignored her curiosity when she saw Happy. The man had obviously been through a lot, and she thought that he had lost weight. "Because I'm asking him a favor, which means that I'll owe him a favor. And if the end result is what I'm hoping for, my friend will owe him a favor, too." She mentally crossed her fingers, hoping that she was able to get the support of both Pepper and Happy.

"Natasha?" Pepper asked. "Who is this friend of yours?"

"You wouldn't know him," Natasha hedged. "But it's important that I find him."

* * *

"Thank you, sir." Natasha stared at her phone. Clint had called in…but he'd called Fury. Not her. And he'd used a telephone misdirect and had only said a few words, so Fury's phone trace had gotten to Romania before going dead…and Clint hated Eastern Europe. He'd had more than a few bad experiences there before he'd brought her in, or so he said. Natasha thought it was because he didn't like the food.

"Well?" Looking up at Pepper's question, Natasha shook her head. "Oh."

"Clint called Director Fury, and told him to 'call off the dogs.'" Natasha sagged back in her chair. "He's cutting off all contact now." Natasha felt her familiar mask fall over her face as she shoved her emotions back. Standing up, she moved to the window. "The phone trace was unsuccessful, but we do know that Clint's alive."

"So we keep on looking. My trace is running, and as soon as his face gets on a camera, we'll know it." Tony's voice had the two women looking at the door. "Question." As he flopped into a chair, he looked at Natasha. "What makes you so sure that he wants to be found? Should we even try?"

"Tony," Natasha said, keeping her voice carefully neutral, "Clint has to be found. If not for his personal safety, then for the safety of the secrets that he knows. And because the two messages that he has sent since vanishing have not been like him. I _will _get him back, and I _will _make sure that he knows how much of an idiot he's been. After that?" Natasha shrugged. "I'm not letting this happen again."

* * *

"Natasha!" Tony's shout had Natasha jerking upright, startled out of her light doze. "I found him! He's in…Seattle? What the fuck is in Seattle? Why would anybody want to be _there_? It's all…rain and hippies and coffee and stuff."

"Clint is," Natasha snapped as she rushed over. "We're going. Now." Turning for the elevator, she didn't look back at the pictures that somebody had posted on Facebook talking about the bums of America and how they needed to get a job before they ended up dying on the street. She especially tried not to think of how _bad_ Clint looked with the police officer clearly giving him CPR.

"Sir," JARVIS said. "I have determined the destination of Agent Barton. He was taken to Harborview Medical Center by ambulance. I am searching their patient records. I have also attempted to alter and block access to the photograph."

"Thanks, J." Tony glanced at Natasha. "I'm coming with you."

Natasha just nodded. The urge to get to Clint overrode her usual instincts, and, agitated, she tapped her fingers against her leg as the elevator descended.

"There was a John Doe, male, that was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit approximately thirty minutes ago, Sir. He is estimated to be in his thirties. Agent Romanoff, what is Agent Barton's age?"

"35," Natasha barked as the elevator stopped. "Tony?"

Tony nodded at two people standing by the street entrance. "Pepper, Happy, we're going to Seattle. Pep, find a few good doctors for whatever reason would land a person in the ICU. Happy, you're going to need to run security. Hate…Har…"

"Harborview Medical Center," Natasha filled in. "How are we getting there?"

"Plane will be waiting." Happy gestured at the car.

"JARVIS," Tony muttered, "can you clear some traffic?"

Natasha ignored the conversations and stared out of the window. Slowly picking up her phone, she listened to it ring. "Director. Clint's in Seattle, in the hospital. They are?" She felt a lifting in her chest at Fury's report on Coulson and his team. "I'm heading to Seattle with Stark and Potts. Yes sir." Dropping her phone, she took a deep breath, hoping that Coulson was close enough to make it to Seattle in time.

"Okay." Tony flexed his fingers as the plane took off. "Now, to find out what the doctors are saying about one Agent Barton. J, you still in?"

"As always, sir."

"Name," Tony muttered. "Nobody deserves to be called 'John Doe' unless he really is John Doe. And whoever would name their kid John when their last name is Doe probably shouldn't be parents." Bending over his phone, he narrowed his eyes. "You never really realize how much _stuff_ they do in a hospital until you have to go fix their mistakes. Birthday…birthday…" he trailed off and looked expectantly at Natasha. When she didn't respond, he shrugged. "Fix that later, then. Address? Does SHIELD even _have_ an address? Pepper?"

"Leave it blank, Tony. Just getting his name in there will be enough."

"Hey." Tony blinked. "He's sick. Like, really sick. Intubated and on more drugs than I can even pronounce sick."

"Tony," Pepper quietly said.

"They did CPR on him when he collapsed, too. Huh. I guess you really can live if your temperature is 105. Although ooh, that doesn't sound good, getting all those consults ordered. Surgery? Why would they call in a surgeon?" Tony punched at his phone before sighing heavily and making a gesture. "Ah. Shot. Two bullets. How can you even walk after getting shot in the gut? Police report says that he was still walking. Tried to fight the officer…aren't you folks supposed to be able to-"

"_Tony_," Pepper snapped. "That's enough! Is he alive?"

"He shouldn't-"

"_Is he alive_."

"…yes?" Tony finally looked at Pepper.

"Will he survive until we get there?"

"I don't-"

"Will he." Pepper's voice lowered, the words coming out in a hiss. "Yes or no."

"He will." Natasha's voice had the two looking over. The SHIELD agent was pale, eyes wide, and her hands were clenched on the armrests of her seat. "He has to."

Everything had taken too long for Natasha and she could feel her grasp on her emotions growing loose. As the car pulled up to the front of the hospital, she threw herself out and rushed to the information desk. "Clint Barton. He's in the ICU."

"Barton," the woman mumbled as she typed on her computer. "Of course. If you could just wait here, please?"

"Why?" Natasha clenched her hands together. "Why can't I see him?"

"There's a note in his file, ma'am, that any visitors need to be escorted up by Security." The woman's voice sharpened. "What is your relation to him?"

"I'm his-"

"Wife. She's his wife," Tony interrupted, leaning on the desk with an easy grin. "Now, how long are you going to keep her from seeing her husband?" He ignored Pepper's raised eyebrow. "I know, Pep, I'm not going to buy the hospital. I'm just trying to get Natasha up to see Clint without jumping through all those hoops."

"You'd better not," Pepper muttered as she put one arm around Natasha's shoulders. "He's already had two hospital wings named after him in the past year."

"Ma'am? You're here to see?" A voice had everybody turning around.

"Clint Barton," Pepper said with exaggerated patience. "Please? She's his wife and we're friends."

The guard looked skeptical. "Really?"

Tony grinned and spread his hands. "Who _wouldn't_ want to be friends with me? Now, are you going to keep my very good friend from seeing her husband? Who vanished without a word?"

It took a minute for the guard to hold out visitor passes. "Put these on, please, and come with me."

Natasha swallowed heavily when she saw Clint. "Clint," she mumbled, one hand stretching out to touch the glass. "What…"

"Natasha," Pepper quietly said as she physically turned Natasha around. "Can you talk to the doctors?"

Craning her head back around to stare at the window, Natasha didn't respond at first. "Can I go in there? Please?"

"They really want to talk to you," Pepper murmured. "Tony, don't."

"I wasn't-" Tony started.

"It was just in case. Natasha," Pepper let go of Natasha's arm. "Tony and I will talk to the doctors for you for now, but you know the most about Clint. You'll have to talk to them eventually."

Natasha rushed into the room and abruptly stopped. "Clint," she breathed out. "What happened to you?" She carefully mapped out every new line and scar that she could see on his face and arms. He looked…old, she realized. Tired. Slowly approaching the bed, she anxiously stared at him. She didn't take a breath until she saw his chest rise – which was accompanied by an obscenely cheerful beep of the ventilator. She scowled at the noise.

Natasha grabbed a chair and set it down next to the bed in a frantic flurry of movement. Collapsing in it, she reached out and put her hand on his. It didn't _feel_ right to have him be so still with her not knowing why. "Clint," she begged as the stress of the search and discovery finally hit her and made her carefully constructed walls collapse, "I can't do this. Please wake up. Please tell me what happened…why did you run? Why didn't you tell me?" Dropping her head to the bed, she sighed. "Please wake up," she whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks for reading. And thanks to Kylen and everybody at The Beta Branch. And yes, Clint's sick.

* * *

The first thought that ran through Clint's mind was that he was finally dry and warm, for the first time in weeks. The second thought was that he wasn't someplace where he wanted to be, based on the sounds and smells, and he carefully opened his eyes. He focused on one face and started shaking his head. "Let me leave," he tried to say.

"Mister Barton?" A doctor leaned over the bed. "I need you to calm down. You're in Harborview Medical Center ICU. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

Swallowing, Clint tried talking again. "Let me _go_." He didn't stop staring at Natasha. "Please?"

"Clint," Natasha whispered as she moved closer. Her eyes were wide. "I would _never_ do that." She held out one hand, pleadingly. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"Couldn't." Clint's voice cracked and he took a careful breath. His ribs hurt with the movement. "Could've been anybody." He ignored Natasha shaking her head and felt small shudders start to run through his body. "_Anybody_."

"I saw the e-mails." Natasha didn't try to stay remote. "I could have _helped _you, Clint." Grabbing his hand, she squeezed it tightly. "You _left_, Clint. For six months. That note you left doesn't count. Or those orders you faked. Fury didn't realize it. Nobody did."

Clint laughed, feeling slightly hysterical. And oddly pleased and upset about the fact that people really _hadn't_ noticed. "How?" But he didn't try to pull away from Natasha. "When?"

"A little over two weeks. I hacked your e-mail." Natasha shook her head. "Clint, you know that I would do _anything _for you. Please don't do this. Don't shut me out…let me help you. _Please_."

"Team's been disbanded, Tasha," Clint whispered, swallowing against the pain. "Coulson's got his new group, you have your stuff, and me…I was sitting at a desk. You don't owe me anything…just let me go and don't try to find me."

"Barton," the voice had Clint feeling a resurgence of his panic as he tore his gaze away from Natasha to stare at the door. "Time to come home now."

"I quit," Clint frantically said as Coulson moved to stand at the foot of his bed. "That means you have no jurisdiction here and can, can _go away_."

"Protocol dictates that while you may tender your resignation, it doesn't have to be accepted until you're proven to be free of anything that may be affecting your mindset." Coulson looked pointedly at the IVs and equipment around the bed. "And seeing as how you've been sedated for the past few days, complete with a breathing tube, I don't think I'll be accepting your resignation anytime soon. Nor will Director Fury, doubly so for him simply because you're in the hospital. I'll say again: it's time to come home."

"Clint." Natasha took a deep breath and Clint watched as her usual masks fell back into place. "Don't do this. Take the time and think it through. Make your decision when you're better."

Coulson glanced at the door. "I'm bringing you your orders from Director Fury. Heal up enough to be able to travel safely and then return to headquarters. Your apartment may have been compromised; FitzSimmons are working on that right now with May. Ward will stay here with you and Natasha. Fury also wants me to tell you that he's 'had it up to here with the damn fool idiots who don't think that they should damn well _ask_ if something seems off.' And to trust your _friends_."

Feeling exhausted, Clint just nodded. He could quite easily get away again once he was feeling better. "What happened?" He asked as he leaned his head back.

"After you were shot twice-"

"Three times," Clint corrected. "First one just nicked me."

"Three times," the doctor continued, "you became septic, and collapsed in Pioneer Square…do you remember that?" When Clint shook his head, the doctor nodded. "They brought you here, and we kept you sedated for the past four days to let the antibiotics and everything start working. You were intubated in the Emergency Department. We still have to go back in and remove the bullets, since you weren't stable enough to make it through surgery." He glanced at a monitor and frowned. "It might be a few more days before the surgeons are sure that you'll survive that." Nodding at Clint, he turned to leave. "Nice to meet you, Mister Barton."

Clint clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea. "You _sure_, Nat?"

She squeezed his hand. "We'll find them."

A tech looked in. "Excuse me, but you're not his wife, are you."

"Work wife," Clint mumbled. "Close enough. _Better_. Although not sure right now."

Natasha smiled sweetly at the tech. "I am allowed to be here." She slowly placed something heavy next to Clint. Reaching down, he felt the familiar shape of a handgun. "Yes?"

"Immediate family only." The tech shook his head. "We have regular visiting hours for everybody else, and they're just about over."

"She stays," Clint ordered before glancing suspiciously at Natasha. "For now."

Coulson eyed Clint. "The debriefing on this one is going to be interesting." Nodding at the tech, he headed for the door.

Clint heard a low conversation start in the hallway, the bass rumble of the tech occasionally interrupted by Coulson's familiar tones. "I couldn't figure it out, Nat. The things that I was being sent…they knew things. They were _saying_ things that I thought…"

"You didn't think." Natasha carefully sat on the bed next to Clint. "Why would _I_ say those things? Or Coulson?"

Clint laughed bitterly as Coulson reentered the room. "You're forgetting everything that happened, Nat. He was one of the _first_ people I suspected. It was too _personal_." He sighed. "And then the list just kept on getting longer."

"Well, that was stupid," Coulson said dryly. "But understandable. And avoidable, as I'm sure you'll realize when you're feeling better. How did you get from New York to here?"

"Rental car's sitting someplace outside Sun Valley. Idaho." Clint yawned. "Full of bullet holes."

"That doesn't take six months, Clint." Natasha shifted, allowing Clint better access to the handgun between the two of them. "Where-"

"Later." Coulson turned to look out the door. "The doctor said that even though he's coherent, he should be allowed to sleep." Moving back to the bed, he leaned against it and stared at Clint with a heavy sigh. "Clint. Stop being an idiot already. When you've finished fighting off that infection, we'll go catch a game. Work everything out. Get in a bar fight or two. I'm sorry for not getting in touch and letting work get in the way again." He lightly swatted the top of Clint's head with a knuckle and smirked. "Birdbrain."

Clint just yawned, relaxing against his will at the familiarity in the room. He'd play along for now, let SHIELD pay his hospital bills, and then vanish again. It would also give him a chance to access his bank account and figure out other options. Wrapping his hand tighter around the handgun, he relaxed even more when he felt a chip in the plastic that had been there for years. Natasha had managed to bring _his_ gun…with that final thought, he fell asleep.

"Natasha." Natasha nodded at Coulson's unspoken order. "Stark still around?"

"He left yesterday." Natasha glanced at Clint and relaxed when she saw that he was asleep, face peaceful with one corner of his mouth turned up. "He's going to run once he can, you know."

"Why do you think I'm leaving Agent Ward?" Coulson grinned humorlessly. "He's an ass sometimes, but he knows what needs to be done. Hopefully by the time that Clint is able to think about vanishing again, though, we won't need to worry."

"Or Clint will drive Ward up a wall," Natasha observed dryly. "Or I will."

Coulson laughed and reached into a pocket. "Maybe Ward will learn to relax, too, and pick up some better interpersonal skills beyond what Skye's forced into him. Here." Natasha caught what he tossed at her and glanced at it curiously. "You got his gun, I got his phone. Maybe he'll want to see if he can best his time beating Angry Birds. That's about _all_ that it will do right now. That and take pictures."

"Fitz?" Natasha set the phone next to the gun.

"And Skye, she modified some other games for him." Coulson stared at Clint for a minute. "I'll be in touch. Keep an eye out…and when he wakes up, try to convince him that he's got more friends than he's thinking." He swallowed heavily and braced himself against the side of the bed. "If he wakes up."

Natasha nervously glanced at Clint, spotting the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Is it really that bad?"

"I looked some things up." Coulson slowly said. "Somewhere between thirty and fifty percent of people with sepsis survive. The numbers are lower for septic shock. The doctor probably knows more."

Natasha's breath caught in her throat and she felt a chill run down her spine. "The doctor didn't say that. He just said that we had to wait and see. I didn't want to look for myself."

"Clint will fight it. After all, he made it a while running around with two bullets in his gut." Coulson sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "We won't give him any other options."

Unconvinced, Natasha nodded as Coulson fell silent. Climbing out of the bed, she tucked Clint's gun back in her bag and joined Coulson in staring pensively at the unmoving figure. "If he lets us."

* * *

Natasha was rereading some of the letters that Clint had been sent when she heard a low moan coming from the bed. "Clint?" She put her laptop to the side and moved closer. "Clint?" She repeated, louder. There wasn't a response, but she felt her breathing increase when his hand started jerking. Frantically pushing the call bell, Natasha did the only thing she could think of and put her hand on the side of Clint's face, hissing when she felt how _hot_ he was. She looked up at the nurse. "He's hot?"

"He's seizing," the nurse replied grimly and stuck her head out the door. "Need some help in here! Abby, page the doctor, he's seizing." Hurrying back to the bed, she nodded to Natasha. "I need you to wait outside, please."

Natasha backed up against the wall instead. She'd never seen anybody this sick before and she couldn't control the wave of fear that crashed over her. "Dammit Clint," she swore under her breath, "Don't let them win." The activity around the bed increased as his entire body started shaking and the doctor ran in.

"Versed in yet?"

"Just in. Temp 104, pulse 120, respirations 22, blood pressure 56 over 30."

Natasha bit her lip as Clint's body suddenly went still. "He'll be okay?"

"Get her out of here," the doctor snapped, "and give him another liter of fluids. Draw another round of blood cultures and up his antibiotics; keep him sedated for now and watch his airway. I also want some Tylenol and a cooling blanket. _Dammit_. He was sounding so good yesterday."

"He's not breathing!" Natasha watched as more people ran into the room and the activity increased. "Jody, start bagging him."

"Damn sepsis," the doctor cursed. "Stupid people who don't get treated when they're first injured…he's going back on the vent." He slowly exhaled. "And get surgery in here. I want to get those bullets _out_. They have to be what's keeping him like this."

Natasha felt somebody grab her elbow and physically pull her from the room. A glimpse of a suit out of the corner of her eye said SHIELD, and she jerked free as soon as she was out of the room. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," Ward said grimly. "But Agent Coulson just called and said that things were found in Agent Barton's apartment and he's flying back to deal with that. What happened? Agent Coulson asked me to keep an eye on you two?" He sounded annoyed. "I had things to do."

"I don't know." Natasha pressed against the window, trying to see through the blinds. "Please let him be okay." Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against the glass, trying to get a sense of what was going on in the room just by listening.

"Mrs. Barton? Or whoever you are?" Natasha reluctantly turned to look at the doctor. "Clint's spiked a fever, and something triggered a seizure." At Natasha's look, the doctor shook his head. "It happens with sepsis sometimes, and it doesn't mean that he's going to have more. But we're going to check to make sure that we didn't miss a part of this infection, and use another antibiotic. He almost went into full-on cardiac arrest in there, as well, and that, plus some other things, means that I'm putting him back on the ventilator. You're still listed as his power of attorney, what do you want to do?"

"According to regula-" Ward started.

Natasha stepped on his foot. "Whatever you need to do. He can't die."

"Look, this is where you _have_ to listen to me, ma'am." The doctor shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his lab coat. "Clint's an _incredibly_ sick man, and prognosis for patients who go into septic shock like he has isn't the greatest. Considering everything else, I'm not giving him good odds at all. Forty percent at the _outside_, and that's only if we can get his fever under control, his blood pressure up to levels that will support _life_, and his organs stay where they're at or improve. If he keeps on going like this?" He shrugged. "Ten percent? Five? Right now it's a waiting game. Honestly, I'm surprised that he woke up and was so coherent yesterday. That's _probably_ a good sign, but I'm not going to change my prognosis based on a ten minute conversation that hasn't been repeated since. _If_ he wakes up again, I'll be able to tell you more."

Natasha wanted to find whoever had pushed Clint to this point and very slowly show them the error of their ways. Reminding herself that she had a reputation to maintain, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Whatever you have to do," she repeated. Opening her eyes, she looked firmly at the doctor. "I will not allow him to die. Thank you. Agent Ward, you can contact Agent Coulson now and inform him of the situation."

Pushing back into the room, she stood next to the bed and stared down at Clint. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I should have been there. I should have known something was wrong. I was just so focused…" she trailed off. Feeling the prick of tears for the first time in recent memory, she blindly reached for the chair and pulled it close with a clatter. "I'm so sorry," she whispered again. Sitting down, she loosely held Clint's hand. She sniffed as she stared up at his face. "Just…don't do this to me."

"Sir?" A nurse put her hand up in front of Ward when he moved to enter the room. "Give them a few minutes, please."

"Oh?" Ward looked in the room.

With a shrug and a sad smile, the nurse followed his gaze as she settled down in a chair outside of Clint's room. "Are you a religious man, sir? Or do you know anybody who is? Because it will take a miracle." Looking up at Ward, she finished, "I think we're just doing things for appearances and to make his family feel better."

Ward stared at the nurse curiously. "You really don't understand, do you." A statement, not a question. "You're advocating not doing anything." Spinning on his heel, he headed for the waiting room and pulled out his cell phone. "Coulson." He ignored the looks as he roughly loosened his tie and threw himself into a chair. "Ward. It's…not good. What are the options beyond what they can do here?" His face fell and he sank back in the chair, fighting disappointment. "We don't have anything? We deal with worse constantly and all you're telling me is that we have to _wait and see_? When they're talking about just _giving up_?" Unconsciously, he sat up straight at Coulson's yell. "Yes sir. Understood."

Drifting back to Clint's room, Ward leaned against the wall just inside the door. Mechanical noises filled the room and the quiet scratching of pen on paper came from right outside the door from the nurse sitting there.

"Sir? She might want this." Ward glanced over to see an older woman holding a blanket. "I'm Shirley. Warm blankets are always appreciated. Can I get you anything?"

Ward shook his head and watched as the woman shuffled in and carefully spread the blanket over Natasha. "Thank you?"

"Tell me about your brother?"

"Oh, um, he's, he's not my brother." Ward was startled to find himself at a loss for words.

"Brother-in-law, then?"

"Coworker." Ward reached for some level of control. "They've been working together for years."

"Sir." Ward glanced down at the hand on his arm. "Talk to him. They say that people in comas can still hear. Does he have any issues with animals?"

"I don't know. He's just a coworker," Ward repeated. "You'll have to ask Romanoff. They've been working together for close to a decade now. Either her or Coulson, and he's not here." Shaking off her arm, he turned around to leave. "Please excuse me; I have to go make a complaint."

"About?" The hand was back, and Ward was surprised at its strength. "The only reason I came over right now is because the head of the hospital just received a very strange phone call about the ICU and asked me to find out what's going on; I work with the director of nursing. We're hoping to get everything cleared up."

"The doctor gave him a very low chance of survival," Ward bit out. "A nurse told me to pray, because it will take a miracle, and that she thinks that all this," he gestured, "is for appearances' sake."

"Ah. Come with me." The woman's voice went flat as she tugged Ward into an empty room and lowered her voice. "Where did they talk to you? In the room, the hallway, or a consultation room?"

"The hallway." Ward suddenly felt confused. "Why?"

A headshake was the response. "On behalf of the hospital, sir, I apologize. Believe me, it is not our goal to simply let Mister Barton go, unless it's _very_ clearly obvious that all other options have been exhausted. Now, what the doctor said _should_ have been said in private, but," she gestured, "I think you can see just how private the hallway is up here. When your coworker wakes up from her nap, try to cheer her up, and tell her that she needs to stay _positive_. Because he _can_ hear her, and _he_ needs to stay positive. If he gives up, at whatever level?" The woman shook her head again. "Nothing we do will help."

"That's the challenge, then," Ward murmured. "I think Coulson should come back. Thank you, ma'am." Firmly nodding at her, he returned to his spot inside Clint's room.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you, everybody.

* * *

Coulson sighed as he stared at the open door to Clint's apartment. "Thank you, Ward. I'll try to come back as soon as I can." Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he entered and started feeling sick at the sight. Clint never let things get as bad as it looked now. "We were supposed to be in Switzerland right now, not destroying an apartment."

"It was already like this when we got here, sir." Agent May glanced over her shoulder. "Whoever was here either left in a hurry or it happened when somebody picked the lock. Isn't this Barton's apartment?"

"It is." Coulson nodded. "You found a key?"

"The super let us in. Sir, you'll want to see this," Fitz called from the kitchen. When Coulson and May entered, he pointed at a few places as Simmons bent over some things on the counter. "This place was _wired_. The only other place that has this much surveillance are the SHIELD brigs. What happened?"

"People were unhappy and decided to show it," Coulson said, opening the fridge. "May, trash bags are in the pantry."

"I don't do windows," May's voice was carefully blank as she handed Coulson a bag.

"That's okay." Coulson started emptying the fridge. "Anything else, you three?"

"Sir," May said as she knelt down next to Coulson. "I have to ask-"

"He's in an ICU in Seattle. He's nowhere near able to be transferred elsewhere, and the doctor is giving him very long odds of surviving." Coulson told himself to stay calm as he continued working. "He had a seizure and they sedated him again. Romanoff and Ward are there." He glanced at a Tupperware container. "All of this will need to be replaced."

"Coulson." May put her hand on Coulson's wrist. "What's really going on?"

Coulson closed his eyes and sank back on his heels. "Most of this is speculation. But about the time that I pulled all of you together, Barton started getting escalating threats. He'd been getting them for a bit, but they finally got him to run. He was followed and shot. He didn't go to a hospital and ended up collapsing. Hospital and everybody thought he was just another homeless guy, but Romanoff had Stark's help and found him."

"That doesn't sound like Barton, though."

"It's exactly what he would have done," Coulson corrected. "And now we're going to find out who is behind it all." Peering at what he thought had been a piece of cheese, he tossed it into the bag. "There. Simmons, did you get the vodka in the freezer?"

"He keeps vodka in the freezer? Oh, of course he would, but how do you know all that?"

"Sir?" Fitz's voice had Coulson standing up, not responding to Simmons' question. "You'll want to see this." As Coulson entered the bedroom, he pointed at the wall. "I'm baffled."

Moving closer, Coulson peered at pictures and notes tacked up on the wall. "The only question is who did it." He glanced over at Fitz. "Did you get pictures of everything?"

"Of course!" Fitz looked offended. "First thing I did."

"Good." Coulson reached up and started pulling things down. "Because by the time Clint gets home, I want this place to look like nothing's happened. It will look better than when he last saw it, and if that means that we're in here painting, then we're in here painting." He paused, staring down at the picture in his hand. "I'd love to know how they got this." Tossing it on the floor, he stalked out of the room.

Curious, Fitz picked up the paper, holding it out as Simmons stepped up next to him. "I don't get it," he finally admitted. "Why would a picture of Coulson, Barton, and Romanoff in a park upset him?"

May's snort had him turning around. "Because when do you ever see people going out and having fun like that? That wasn't an assignment. That was them going out and relaxing, which means that somebody's been able to access their records." She pointed at an image in the background. "Stark Tower isn't finished yet, so this was over a year ago. Possibly more than two."

"But why would somebody want to follow senior agents?" Fitz very carefully put the picture down on the bed. "They're senior agents."

"Exactly." May's voice went flat. "And as such, they can be even more dangerous if they went rogue. Think of what happened with Amad-no, the Chitauri. Now make it so that it's not a targeted strike, with the goal of retrieving a single prisoner and taking out the Helicarrier, but a broader action with the goal of taking out the organization – or an entire country. Most of the senior agents know where things that can _do_ that are located and how to get to them. I do. Coulson does, and I wouldn't be surprised to find out that between Barton and Romanoff, they have the ability to destroy a country just on their own, _without_ any of the things that are kept locked away." She shrugged and turned to look in the bathroom. "You may see their friendly sides, but working with any of us is like working with a tiger that's armed with high explosives. There's a level of danger."

"I knew that." Simmons turned to look at Fitz. "You knew that, right?"

"Of course I knew that! Mostly," Fitz admitted. "Although we should probably get back to work." He leaned closer to Simmons. "Do you think they watch us, too?"

* * *

"Natasha." The sound of her name had Natasha's head jerking up. "How are you doing?" Coulson looked down at her with a small frown. "On second thought, when was the last time you got out of this room?"

"Two days ago?" Natasha had to look at the date written on the whiteboard. "They've been bringing me food." Turning back to the bed, she glanced at Clint. "He's stopped sweating now. The doctor said that he's going to try and take him off the ventilator again today, and he should wake up again tomorrow."

"Natasha." Coulson lightly squeezed her shoulder. "Go outside for a few minutes, get some fresh air. Maybe visit the cafeteria for some better options than whatever they've been bringing you. I'll stay in here. I'm sorry that I wasn't able to come back sooner."

"No." Natasha slowly pushed herself to her feet. "I understand. Did you find anything?"

"We're running down a few things," Coulson admitted as he stepped back. "But it will help if Clint will wake up. Skye's running into problems because people weren't using much in the way of technology. Letters and face-to-face meetings, I'm guessing." Taking Natasha's place, he glanced up at her. "What else has been happening here?"

Slipping around to the opposite side of the bed, Natasha ran her hand over Clint's head. "He's getting better, or so the doctor says. But he hasn't told the complete truth before, so I'm going to wait and see what happens when Clint wakes up. I've just, I've been talking to him. Watching television; there's never anything good on but maybe…" she shrugged. "You'll let me know if anything happens?" She gestured at the whiteboard. "They've been good about tracking everything on there."

"Natasha." Coulson lightly glared at her. "Just as much as _you've_ let _me_ know."

"Touché," Natasha murmured as she left the room.

With a sigh, Coulson twisted in the chair and leaned his elbows on the bed, staring at Clint. "I'm sorry, Clint. I'm sorry that all this happened to you and I was in Tahiti with Mai-Tai's and a beach." He fell silent for a minute, listening to the hissing sounds of the ventilator. "You'll have to come see everybody, or maybe I'll bring them all out here. I finally got May out from behind that desk of hers; she's piloting and doing a couple other things. It took her less than a week to tell me that she wanted in on the action. Ward…I'm giving him another two months to fully come around. Skye," he grinned. "You'll love her. Every time I think she's going to give in, something happens and she rises to the occasion, bitching the entire time. FitzSimmons you already know a little. You'd love our space, too. We went back to one of the jets, since it's easier than the Helicarrier."

He grimaced. "Until people have the bright idea of blowing a hole in the side of it. Or decide that it needs, well, 'something' is what I was told. I don't think they understand the line I'm being forced to walk with Fury; he's making me earn everything that I do and get. I'm just glad that he let me stay in contact with you and Natasha. This group is good, but you need to keep your friends close." With a sigh, he leaned back and shook his head. "But I haven't been doing that. I just hope that I haven't fucked all this up too badly with you two, because the three of us need all the friends we can get."

"Excuse me?" Coulson warily glanced up. A woman in scrubs raised a handful of syringes. "He's due for more medicine." A fast glance showed a nurse sitting at the desk outside the room, reading a magazine.

Coulson's eyes flickered to the whiteboard next to Clint's bed. "Which ones?"

"Painkillers and antibiotics." The woman moved closer, reaching for the IV line hanging next to Clint's head.

Coulson lunged up and forward, grabbing the woman's wrist. "I was told otherwise. Who are you?" A second look into the hall had him frowning when the conversation and sudden movements didn't make the nurse outside look up. His free hand grabbed at the call bell.

"Yes?" Coulson was relieved to find out that he'd been able to catch somebody's attention. "What's going on here?"

"Who is she?" Coulson didn't have the time or patience for niceties. "And why is she attempting to give Barton medications that he isn't due for?"

"That's…" the nurse trailed off, confused. "Jane? I don't know." Leaning her head out the door, she called out, "Don, call Security please?"

Coulson quickly reached over with his free hand and grabbed the syringes. Dropping them on the bed, he pointed at the phone next to the bed. "Will you? Since you won't let me use my cell phone in here?" The nurse hurried over and moved the phone closer. Propping the headset on his shoulder, Coulson didn't let go of the woman's wrist as he dialed. "Fury. It's Coulson. Going to need backup here; they found him. I'm bringing in the rest of my team. Can I have Hill, too? The local LEOs know a little, but I want _my_ people here."

He exhaled roughly. "Sir, they just had somebody walk around in scrubs holding syringes and didn't ask any questions. Another nurse thought she recognized her. She walked into the room, we had a conversation, and the nurse outside kept on reading a magazine. That's sounding a little less like something that the locals should handle and something that's more on our side of the street. Thank you." Dialing a second number, Coulson frowned. "Romanoff. Get back up here. Yes, Clint's okay. Call Ward and have him come up as well. They found him."

Hanging the phone up, he just stared levelly at the woman. The woman started shifting nervously. "I was just told to give him those!"

Humming noncommittally, Coulson lightly tugged at her wrist, pulling her towards the foot of the bed. Dragging her into the hallway, he ignored the security guards and glanced over as Ward ran up. "Find out what she knows," he ordered. "I'm getting the jet moved over here, so we'll have someplace to work from." As Ward grabbed her arm in confusion, Coulson nodded. "Wait." Hurrying back into the room, he grabbed the syringes and glanced around. Wrapping them in a paper towel, he returned to the hallway and held them out. "Take these, too. Have Simmons find out what's in them when they get here." As he heard footsteps, Coulson looked at the doors. "Natasha. Go sit with Clint."

Stopping in the hallway, Natasha looked around, worry and fury fighting for dominance on her face. "Is he?"

"As far as I know, nothing has changed." Coulson moved closer and lowered his voice. "Let Ward handle this. You go watch Clint's back, since you know the staff here the best." He watched her reluctantly nod. "Natasha. Please."

Natasha turned and hurried into the room. A soft scrape of the chair being dragged across the floor told Coulson that Natasha was back at her post as he turned to Ward. "Agent Coulson," Ward said, "I don't-"

"You don't _what_, Ward?" Coulson bit out. "Find out everything that you can. Simple as that. When the jet gets here, put her in a cell and have Simmons find out what was in those syringes. Move it." Not bothering to watch Ward drag the woman off, he spun around and started looking for whatever else she might have used to keep the staff from noticing her.


	5. Chapter 5

Trigger warning: attempted self harm about halfway through the chapter. Clint's _not_ being himself. Thank you Kylen, everybody at the Beta Branch, and everybody reading.

* * *

"Tell me I'm dreaming." Clint's slurred request had Natasha jerking her head up, startled. "Better, tell me I'm dead."

"Clint?" Natasha sat up straight, feeling Clint's fingers move under her hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Tell me I'm dead," Clint carefully enunciated without opening his eyes. "Please."

"You're alive, Clint," Natasha said as she squeezed Clint's hand. "Thankfully."

"Damn," Clint breathed. Finally opening his eyes, he squinted slightly. "Where?"

"Seattle. Remember?" Natasha moved to sit on the bed, carefully resting one hand on Clint's chest. "Why…why do you want me to tell you that you're dead?"

Swallowing heavily, Clint turned his head away from her – his _partner _and _friend_, a treacherous part of his mind whispered – and licked his lips. "They tried. For months."

"Clint." Natasha shifted around. Grabbing his face, she physically turned his head to look at her. "We're going to _find_ them. We have somebody already. Coulson stopped her. They're not going to succeed, because we're going to find them and stop them."

"But-" Clint was interrupted by Natasha gently shaking his head.

"But shut up, Barton, and listen to me. They _said _that you could hear me, and I spent far too much time talking to a _body_. Now I can talk to the _person_, my _partner_, and he can't get out of bed just yet which means he _has_ to listen to me. I have spent a week sitting here, watching you have a seizure and almost _die_ in front of me. The doctor said that you had a _ten percent_ chance of living that day." Natasha took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Leaning forward, she commanded, "I want you to _prove him wrong_."

"I don't think I want to," Clint whispered, fixing his eyes on Natasha's face. "I don't think-"

"I don't want to hear that again, Clint." Natasha leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Clint's. "I want to hear that you're going to _get better_. I want to hear that you're going to _fight back_. Because I read those letters."

"They were right," Clint moaned. "They were _right_."

"They were _wrong_." Natasha's fingers dug into the sides of Clint's head, making him wince. "When you're not sick, when you're not stuck at a desk sorting _equipment requests_, you'll see that. When you talk to me, you'll see that. Talk to Coulson, and you'll see that. Or any one of the people he brought here. They're all here _for you_, Clint, and not a single one of them wants to hurt you. May wants to visit with you and bother Coulson. Ward wants to ask you why _he_, of all people, was picked to work on Coulson's team because he doesn't believe me. FitzSimmons want to see you. Skye…" Natasha trailed off with a small smile. "I think Skye wants to kiss you, or use you for some other purpose that she isn't telling anybody about. She's tried once with me."

"Kissing?"

Natasha's laugh quickly turned into a sob. "_Why_, Clint? And what _happened_?"

Clint opened his mouth, then shut it again. He felt torn between telling her everything and shutting her out. "I…they knew things, Nat."

"I know. But _why_?"

"How would they know what I ordered from that one Etsy shop for you? How would they know what happened in Prague that one time?" Clint wanted Natasha to let go of his face and he closed his eyes again. "Or Denver?" He carefully raised one hand and dragged it along her arm.

"They read the reports. They hacked your computer. Clint, if you'd even _looked_ you'd've seen it!" Natasha grabbed Clint's hand. "But they got you so turned around, and you were already doubting yourself. I knew that. I should have gotten out of going undercover for so long, but you weren't talking to me. I should have realized that there was something wrong. I should have pushed. _I'm_ sorry."

Clint didn't know how to respond. "Don't be. None if it's your fault. You were in deep, and the op was predicted to take a while. You told me that."

"And it's not yours, either," Natasha responded. "It never was."

"I know that." Clint found himself relaxing with the sudden realization that he really did have one person to watch his back. He didn't like it. "I just don't believe it."

"Hopefully you will by the time the doctors say that you can start to think about getting up." Coulson's dry tone had Clint glancing at the corner of the room. "Because if you'd used the brain that we all know you have, the people who are at fault are Fury and Hill. _They're_ the ones who stuck you with desk duty. _They're_ the ones who didn't realize that you were gone before Natasha said something…and you put Hill's signature on the orders, so it's doubly _more_ so on her!" He slapped the binder in his lap shut and stood up, moving to the bed.

"I-"

"And if you'd _said_ something, you wouldn't be here. Natasha and I wouldn't be spending hours sitting around watching you sleep, hoping that you'd _wake up_! That's _completely_ on you!" Coulson tried to keep his voice down when he saw the nurse watching with a concerned look. "If I have to go to your funeral, I want it to be because you went down fighting, _not_ because you _gave up_!"

Clint suddenly felt angry. "I didn't _ask_ for you to look for me. I didn't _ask_ for you to get Tony _fucking_ Stark involved and actually _find_ me." He stopped, panting. His head hurt and he felt worse than he could ever remember feeling. Trying to slow down his breathing, he finished, "I didn't _ask_ for any of this. Those orders I faked were supposed to have kept you from _looking_."

"You didn't ask for this." Coulson nodded. "But it happened. And now we," his gesture took in the three of them, "are going to find out everything that happened."

Clint just eyed the other two resentfully. He didn't know what to think anymore, and that upset him just as much as them having found him did.

* * *

Clint woke up slowly, realizing that he hadn't been sedated again. Glancing around the room, he realized that Coulson was slumped down in the chair against the wall and Natasha was nowhere to be seen. Shifting experimentally, he nodded to himself when he discovered that he could move a bit more, too.

Sounds from the hallway had him looking out the window, then the door, discovering that the nurse wasn't immediately visible. "Good," he breathed. With a wary glance at Coulson, he reached for one of the IV pumps. Turning it slightly, he stared at the screen. With a huff, he reached for another pump. "Too many drugs," he sighed. "Dopamine…" he narrowed his eyes in thought. "Better option than maintenance fluids. Whatever it is."

With another glance at Coulson, Clint started pushing buttons on the pump. With a frown, he figured out how to silence it, and was quickly involved in trying to change the settings. A whisper of sound had him looking over to see the nurse glaring at him. "Mister Barton, if you _really_ want to make yourself miserable? Or try to kill yourself?" The nurse was busy attaching wrist restraints to the bed. "_Wrong_ place to choose, even worse drug to choose. So either you stop messing around and promise me that you won't try anything, or I'll restrain you."

Shaking his head, Clint glared back. "No," he hissed. "It's…easier. For everybody. Nobody should have brought me _here_ in the first place!" He reached over and tried to knock her hands away.

"Phil," the nurse raised her voice and Clint frantically looked over to see Coulson had sat up. "I could use your help, please. Can you come hold his hand down?" She shook her head as Coulson practically sprinted over. "This is temporary, until he's decided that he really does want to stay among the living and that it's not up to _him_ to play around with the equipment."

"Clint." Coulson ignored the nurse as he grabbed Clint's arm. "What were you _thinking?_"

Clint tried to jerk his hands free as the nurse quickly restrained one arm, then the other. "That I shouldn't be here. That," he swallowed back his guilt, "I'm just screwing everything up for everybody else. That they were _right_." He managed to put a hurt look on his face and stare at Coulson. "Because they were."

Coulson lurched backwards as if struck. "Clint." He shook his head and moved forwards again. "Clint. I don't know how to convince you that they were wrong." Ignoring the nurse talking on the phone, he moved back to the chair and pulled it closer to the bed. "Killing yourself is _not_ an acceptable option, either."

"You don't understand," Clint snapped. If he couldn't get them to leave him alone…

"_Dammit_, Clint." Coulson scowled. "Don't do this. Not to Natasha. Not to me." Standing up, he stalked to the door. "Don't you _ever_ say that again." With a deep breath, he spun around. "And don't talk to me about 'not understanding.' Because I sure as hell don't, but _you_ don't understand, either. Ask Natasha about what happened when she discovered that you went missing. Ask _me_ about what happened when Fury finally told me that you'd vanished nearly seven months ago and oh, by the way, he's in an _intensive care unit_ in Seattle because he was _shot _and _septic_ and _nearly dead_." Ignoring Clint's glare, he slammed his hands against the foot of the bed. "Are you _really_ that selfish? To think that she and I would just _move on_? That we would _accept_ our friend killing himself?" He had braced himself for Clint to lash out…but he was surprised by Clint's reaction.

Clint sank down and caught a flash of worry on Coulson's face. "Because you weren't supposed to have found me. Nobody was. I was just going to go to Alaska and vanish." Closing his eyes, he turned his head to the side. "But-"

Coulson almost swore when the nurse lightly coughing caused Clint to stop talking. "The doctor will be by in a little bit to check on you, Clint."

Doing the only thing he could think of, Coulson stalked out of the room and pulled out his phone. "Ward. Get up here." Glancing back in at the nurse, he shook his head. "Agent Ward will be coming up. Please don't let anybody in there until then." Without waiting for her response, he headed for the doors.

"Simmons!" The bark had the two scientists looking up. "In terms that I can understand, tell me what is happening to Barton and why he's so determined to kill himself." Coulson tossed a pile of papers down on the table.

"Oh," Simmons started as she picked up the papers. "Is this Agent Barton's chart? Of course it is, he's the reason we're here."

"And I think I've found something, too." Fitz led Coulson over to a computer. "Because I was trying to trace what we found in his apartment, and they were made _just_ for that. They're SHIELD technology, yes, but mixed in with some other technology that we don't use. It's almost as if, as if they were given _part_ of the schematics but then had to fill in the blanks themselves. Unfortunately, I'm still working on the device that you found from the other day. It's not in the database, but it looks familiar. Almost like Stark, but not quite."

"Ah!" Simmons hurried over. "He's not going to be acting normal for a bit. Well, whatever is normal for Agent Barton, because he doesn't always act very normal, does he? But what he was infected with is going to cause him more problems, not to mention the medications. Everything will make him feel a bit worse and will probably also affect his brain a little. It's all very fascinating, isn't it?" At Coulson's look, her face fell. "Well, maybe not _that_ fascinating." She perked up again. "But he'll get better! It will just take time. Days, not minutes, because his body will have to get itself sorted out. Whenever you talk to him just remember that he's confused and hurting so it's really not _him_ talking to you. I would tell Agent Romanoff that, as well."

"Natasha will be back tonight; she had to fly back to Headquarters for something." Coulson glanced between the two scientists. "Will that be enough time?"

"For?" Fitz looked curious. "Oh! Yes! Well, maybe."

"But I'll have everything done, yes." Simmons nodded. "We might even have a better idea of where the surveillance was going, since Skye says she's close to breaking their encryption." With a gesture, she pulled up some lists. "Now, the chemicals that were around his apartment? He's just lucky that he didn't eat any of them. They're common enough in SHIELD labs, but not _that_ common; I could tell you half a dozen laboratories within driving distance of Agent Barton's apartment that would use them. Three of them are in New York, another two in New Jersey, and one in Connecticut. So that helps narrow everything down even more as to who may be behind this. Right now I'm waiting on inventory lists and resupply requests to try and identify which one they came from, exactly. The drugs that were in the syringes, insulin and morphine, are both incredibly common; they could have been obtained from the hospital pharmacy or another patient's medicine box."

"So we have places to look." Coulson nodded with a small frown. "Good. Now. What do we have that can help Barton?"

"Time?" Simmons leaned on the table and stared at the display. "Really, sir, the antibiotics that the doctors have been giving him are working. It's just that as all the bacteria are dying off they're releasing all sorts of endotoxins that would make him feel sick. Sicker. So yes. Patience."


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you Kylen, everybody at TBB, and all the readers.

* * *

"Okay." Coulson sighed, frustrated, and looked at Natasha. "The problem?"

"He won't talk to us about anything significant." Natasha stared down at her cup of coffee. "He's not acting like himself, he's confused about things, and if he was strong enough, he would probably be throwing whatever he could reach. I'm about ready to give up."

Nodding, Coulson dropped his head into his hands. "Simmons and the staff here all said we had to be patient, that this was just part of him being sick, but I wish we could…" his head shot up. "Are there any _windows_ up there? Or has he been staring at the same things since he woke up?"

"I don't," Natasha started, then smiled. "We can certainly ask if he can get to one and look outside, or at least get _some_ sort of a change of scenery. Do you have anything of his with you that might also help distract him?"

"No, because I wasn't sure if it was compromised or not, but I'll send FitzSimmons shopping." Coulson nodded. "What were your plans for the afternoon?"

Natasha lifted one shoulder slightly. "One of the nurses was talking about a dog coming around. I will make him say hello." Standing up, she nodded. "Maybe a change will help. I'm sure that having some music or a movie will help, too. It is boring in there."

* * *

"Go away." Clint glared at Natasha as he crossed his arms over his chest. He was thankful that they'd only kept him restrained for a day, although the nurse had moved from the hallway to inside his room. "I'm still alive, so you can leave me alone now."

"No," Natasha bluntly replied. "Because you haven't answered my question yet, and I'm sure that the staff here would like it if you stopped being like this." She glanced at the nurse when she heard a snort. "What?"

The nurse held up a syringe. "We always love it when they stop acting like that, but we're prepared for if he gets worse." Standing up, she moved to stand by the foot of the bed and shook her head. "Believe me, he could be worse. It's called ICU psychosis. Right now he's just _grumpy_." Tucking the syringe in her pocket, she glanced at everything around Clint's bed. "Mister Barton, would you like a surprise that doesn't include tests, needles, or seemingly pointless questions?"

"No," Clint growled. "I need to get _out_ of here."

"Oh, come on." The nurse leaned down, resting her elbows on the side rail. "I bet you'll like it. We don't get a lot of visitors like this up here, because so many people are sleeping. But since you're awake, she's willing to come and visit. She's really cute," she cajoled. "And Babe loves it."

"Babe?" Natasha saw the spark of curiosity flash through Clint's eyes before he narrowed them. "Sounds like a stripper."

"Nope. We tend to discourage _that_ sort of thing. HR gets all sorts of upset and Ruth doesn't bring in her homemade treats for _weeks_, which means that we actually have to go down to Starbucks or Tully's." The nurse glanced at the door. "You like dogs?"

"Dogs?" Clint looked suspiciously at Natasha. "What did you tell her?"

"I tried to have them bring you _bugs_, Clint," Natasha snapped. "You like dogs well enough."

"I-" Clint was interrupted by a knock on the wall. He scowled at Natasha. "Liar."

"About? Hello." Natasha looked at the door. "Please, come in."

Looking at the door, Clint was surprised to see a Golden Retriever walk in. "Huh?" He watched as the dog didn't seem to look around as it headed straight for the bed and sat down. He reached out one hand, curiously, and smiled slightly when it sniffed his fingers and gently licked them. "Babe?"

"You were expecting a pig?" The woman holding the dog's leash shrugged with a small smile as she checked a piece of paper. "My name's Kathy, I'm a volunteer with the animal therapy group. This is Babe; she's a two-year-old Golden Retriever. You're Mister Barton?"

"Clint," Clint quietly said, keeping his hand out to the dog. He glanced up when the nurse spread a blanket over the bed and lowered the side rail.

"This sort of thing works best when the dog is in bed with the patient," she said as Babe stood up, tail wagging. "Just don't let her sit on him, but everything else is okay. No getting out of bed, Clint."

Nodding, Clint watched as Kathy lifted Babe onto the bed and held out a rope toy. "Babe, be gentle. Clint, if you'd like to play with her, this is a good toy to use."

"No." Clint shook his head as he fondled the dog's head. "This is good."

Stepping back, Natasha watched as the dog stretched out next to Clint and rested her head on his chest with a soft sigh. Clint just closed his eyes and continued petting. Natasha's stomach dropped when his hand fell to the side, and she looked frantically at the nurse and volunteer.

"Few more minutes," the nurse whispered as she returned to her seat. "Don't worry, he's doing just fine. Better than fine, actually. He's asleep." Beckoning to Natasha, she pointed at Clint's chart and then up at the monitor. "See? His heart rate is going down; his blood pressure is going up. And that's just after five minutes. Does he have a pet at home?"

As Natasha shook her head, the dog just sniffed at Clint, then worked her head under his arm with another sigh.

* * *

"You're being moved to a different unit, Clint." Natasha tried to sound positive. "And a room with a window."

"I don't ca-wait, what?" Clint stared at Natasha. "I'm getting out of here?"

Nodding, Natasha sat down on the bed. "The doctor has decided that you're going to live, and so you don't need to be up here anymore. He's saying a couple days more in the hospital, then a rehabilitation facility." She paused, unsure of how to say everything else.

"Nat," Clint coaxed, trying to be gentle. "What else?"

"Are you still planning on leaving?" Staring at her hands, Natasha didn't move when Clint covered them with one of his. "Or will you actually stay?"

Clint squeezed her hands, thinking. "I don't know." He sighed. "You saw everything. And then…" he trailed off. "And then I started to get confused. I don't want to get anybody hurt."

"You've hurt us already, Clint." Natasha closed her eyes, hoping that he wouldn't see through her attempt to shamelessly manipulate him. "Why won't you let me-"

"_Don't_, Nat." Clint's voice was rough. "Don't make this harder for me."

"Then don't run away again."

"Nobody knows who is behind all this." Shifting slightly, Clint reached out and slowly lifted Natasha's chin. "It's-"

"It's been three weeks since we _found_ you, Clint. That's barely any time." Natasha didn't open her eyes. "Especially since all that we've had to go on is what was found in your apartment and those letters that you didn't get rid of. Why won't you _talk_ to me?"

"What do you want me to say, Tasha?" Clint knew his voice was starting to rise, and he glared at the nurse when he glanced up with a raised eyebrow.

Natasha jerked free and stood up. "That you've come to your _senses_," she hissed. "That you'll tell me what happened, and when, and let me try to find out who was behind it _myself_."

"I-" Clint stared at Natasha's back.

"If you really want me to go away, Barton, I will." Natasha clenched her fists and refused to turn around. "If you want me to hand you a few thousand dollars and watch you ride off into the sunset like in some ridiculous western, fine. But don't expect me to stand around when you want to roll over and _die_. Because that's what you are doing." Head held high, she stalked out of the room. Once she was out of sight of Clint, she collapsed against the wall. Sliding down to the floor, she leaned back and tried to blink the tears out of her eyes.

"Tasha?" Clint stared at the door. "I…I don't know what to do?"

"I think the first step, Clint, would be to apologize," the nurse said as he moved to look out the door. "Because if I managed to piss off my wife that much? I wouldn't have a wife anymore. Next step would probably be to talk to her and that other guy. Phil. Because you've managed to really piss off a lot of people, and there's only so much that can be blamed on the sepsis and the meds."

Suppressing his urge to snap at the nurse, Clint nodded. "I know." He sighed. "I'm just confused."

The nurse glanced down the hall. "I'd suggest trying a little harder to become _less_ confused. Natasha's looking more than a little upset. And honestly, once you get off of the unit it will be a lot harder to control access. I have people trying to kill me? I'd be pulling in all the security I could get. And around here, some of the best security is having a person or two in the room at all times to raise hell if something happens." He shrugged. "If you want, I can ask the doctor for a social work consult."

"No." Clint closed his eyes and sank back, suddenly tired. "I…I'll think it over."

* * *

Clint stared hungrily at the window as he was wheeled into his new room and up to the bed. "Wait." He glanced over his shoulder at the nurse. "Can I look outside?" With a shrug, the nurse pushed him closer, and he hungrily took in the view. It…wasn't much. Buildings and clouds, but it still made Clint realize how much he had missed having the ability to look outside. "Thanks."

He listened as the nurse pointed out things to him, but most of his attention was focused on the other two people standing just inside the door. It shook Clint slightly when he realized how warily they were both watching him, each in their own way. Coulson was hugging a binder to his chest, one shoulder turned towards the door, and Natasha was very carefully _not_ looking directly at him. Her hands were shoved deep in her pockets, and Clint mentally winced. She _hated_ doing that, because it was, for her, an obvious sign that she was trying not to fidget.

"I suppose it could be worse," Coulson finally said once he'd made a slow circle of the room and looked in the bathroom. "If you angle it just right, you can see the water."

"At least it's _a_ window." Clint desperately reached for the peace offering. "It was getting kinda dull staring at the walls."

"It was getting dull staring at _you_," Coulson retorted, and Clint breathed a little easier with the comeback. The two men stared at the door as Natasha spun on her heel with a small squeak of rubber on linoleum and stalked out. "You've got a lot of work there, Clint."

"With both of you," Clint agreed, nodding at the unspoken rebuke. "And I can't get out of it by buying her stuff, either."

"Not this time." Coulson shoved the tray table closer to Clint and dropped the binder on it. "But you can _start_ by looking at all this."

With a sigh, Clint nodded and stared at the first page. Carefully crossing his legs, he nodded at the foot of the bed. "Have a seat?" He glanced up when a small knife was slid onto the table next to the binder.

"No," Coulson said. "I have other things to do."

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Clint watched Coulson walk out the door without a backwards glance. Somehow he just _knew_ that what Coulson meant was "I have better things to do than sit around with you."

Bending over the table, Clint started to slowly leaf through the data in the binder. Shaking his head at the information he found, he gritted his teeth and made himself stare dispassionately at the pictures of his apartment, trying to convince himself that he didn't miss any of his things and that it would be easier to clean up once he was gone again.

"Barton." A vaguely familiar voice had Clint looking up at the door and reflexively reaching for the knife. "Long time no see."

"May." Clint nodded and slid the knife under his pillow. "Come on in." He eyed her uniform. "I thought rumors had you back in the office."

"I drive the bus," May said shortly as she slipped inside the room. "Although it's a very loose definition of 'driving the bus.'"

"Yeah, well, you know how Coulson is." Clint shrugged before lifting the edge of the binder. "This is your work?"

"And FitzSimmons'. I didn't think that you'd appreciate Skye in your place." Standing at the foot of the bed, May crossed her arms over her chest. "Where are Coulson and Romanoff?"

"I…may have managed to finally piss them off one too many times," Clint admitted. "But thanks. It's nice to know some of the people who were in my apartment." He tapped one picture. "They went back after I left."

"Okay." May nodded. "Not what I was here about."

Not surprised, Clint nodded back. "What are you here about? I'm not exactly the best person to be around right now."

May shrugged. "I thought that you might want to see a new face; I know what it's like being stuck in a hospital bed for weeks. And I had a few other questions for the investigation." A smile finally emerged. "Plus, I was told to watch your back."

"_That_ version of driving the bus, right," Clint snorted. "Fine. Although if you know where Natasha and Coulson are, I don't want to talk about some of this more than I have to." He held up his cellphone. "Somebody went and reprogrammed this. I don't even _like_ Angry Birds, let alone the space and Star Wars versions. If you could pass along to whoever did this that they've got an hour from the time that I meet them to fix it, I'd be thankful."

"Right." May eyed Clint skeptically as she tapped at the radio in her ear. "Coulson, is Romanoff with you?" She nodded, staring off into the distance. "Barton's willing to talk now."

"Have a seat." Clint gestured at the foot of the bed. "We can swap war stories while we're waiting." He felt the corner of his mouth lifting in a sly smile. "Did Coulson _really_ drug Ward up and let somebody they'd detained interrogate him?"

May laughed and pulled out her cell phone. "I saved the video." Sitting down next to the bed, she propped it up and muttered, "I'm still not too sure about Skye sometimes. She was a computer hacker working out of a van, broke through our security, and came over _too_ easily. Now she's got almost everybody wound around her little finger – I'm just glad that it's Ward dealing with her and not me."

"Somebody to watch, then?" Clint let out a bark of laughter at the sight of Coulson sticking Ward with the hypodermic. "She dangerous, well-intentioned, or just confused?"

"Well-intentioned, but-" May cut off as the door opened. "There are times that I wonder just how much of a danger she could be. Romanoff."

"May." Natasha nodded as she glanced at Clint. Seeing the question in her eyes, he let a ghost of a hopeful smile cross his face.


End file.
